


yours for the weekend ('tis the damn season)

by thelittlebirdthattoldyou



Series: iwaoi x evermore collection [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Actor Oikawa Tooru, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Press and Tabloids, Teacher Iwaizumi Hajime, somehow i hit every possible iwaoi relationship status at the same time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29149134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlebirdthattoldyou/pseuds/thelittlebirdthattoldyou
Summary: “I missed you,” Oikawa says.“I missed you, too.”“Can we…” Oikawa licks his lips. “Just for the weekend?”Iwaizumi closes his eyes, exhales. He wonders how it’s possible that every time Oikawa returns, it’s like he never left at all. They laugh and they kiss and act like nothing could ever separate them up to the moment of his departure. Then he slips through Iwaizumi’s fingers like gossamer thread, and the year of emptiness in between visits grows longer every time.Still. “Just for the weekend,” Iwaizumi agrees.Every year, Hollywood actor Oikawa Tooru returns to his hometown and the arms of his childhood best friend. This time, something’s different.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Series: iwaoi x evermore collection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139576
Comments: 36
Kudos: 190





	yours for the weekend ('tis the damn season)

**Author's Note:**

> iwaoi x evermore series part 1: dorothea/'tis the damn season
> 
> has it only been a month since i last posted? it feels like so much longer,,, i've been working on this for ages. pls excuse the tags, they are a mess, but i hope you enjoy the read!!
> 
> a huge thank you to my beta [@slainephoto](https://twitter.com/slainephoto) for the support!!

Iwaizumi hates the tabloids. At least, he hates the foreign tabloids. The Japanese ones are okay; Iwaizumi doesn’t mind what he sees in their headlines when he happens to glance at them in the shop windows on his way to work. Oikawa is their golden boy, the dashing foreign heartthrob that represents his native country in Hollywood. It’s the American tabloids that really rip into him.

He’ll watch whatever shows and movies Oikawa acts in. He’ll find clips of his interviews on Youtube, sometimes, when he misses the sound of Oikawa’s voice. He checks out interviews and articles about him if they happen to come from respectable publications.

Like everyone in town, Iwaizumi has kept up with Oikawa’s career. All of Miyagi is proud that their province managed to produce an international superstar. Iwaizumi is also proud, but he was never surprised. He knew from the moment he met Oikawa when they were five years old that the boy was meant for glory. That’s just how Oikawa is—so bright that the world itself has to expand to contain him.

But Iwaizumi doesn’t read the tabloids. The one time he made that mistake, he got so angry that he punched a dent into his living room wall.

As a result, he’s blindsided when, over a simple dinner of fried rice, his phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out and stares at it, squinting at the screen to make sure he’s not hallucinating. It’s Oikawa.

Oikawa is calling him. It’s not an impossible thing: Oikawa’s phone number hasn’t changed since he left for America. Either of them could have reached out at any time. Oikawa is sentimental like that.

It is, however, highly improbable. They haven’t spoken since last year. The last text between them, a year ago:

**You:** Have a safe trip.

Iwaizumi had sent it after dropping Oikawa off Sendai Airport to catch his flight back to LAX. There’s no reply from Oikawa, but he did react to the message with a little heart emoji, and he had a two-page spread in Vogue the week after his plane landed, so Iwaizumi knew he was fine.

Iwaizumi’s thumb hesitates over the red _Decline Call_ button. The remains of his dinner sit before him, unfinished. He has a stack of quizzes to score and lesson plans to draft. Now isn’t the time to get wrapped up in what might have been. A part of him is annoyed, even, that Oikawa has the audacity to dial him with no warning like this, as if he expects Iwaizumi to drop his entire life to take his call.

“Hello?” Iwaizumi asks, clicking _accept_ . As annoying as it is, he _would_ drop everything to make sure Oikawa’s okay.

For a long minute, Iwaizumi hears nothing but the hitch of Oikawa’s ragged breathing, and he waits, drumming his fingers on the countertop. Oikawa sounds panicked, like he was freaking out about something not two seconds ago and has only just collected himself enough to call Iwaizumi.

“Iwa—Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, choked.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi breathes. The sound quality is kind of shitty, but he missed hearing Oikawa’s voice. He doesn’t sound like himself on TV. “What’s wrong?”

“My plane lands in an hour,” Oikawa says. “Can you come get me?”

Iwaizumi blinks. “Your… plane?”

“I’m flying back.”

“ _What?”_ Iwaizumi had heard from Oikawa’s mom that he had no plans to return for the holidays this year. Something about a big project he was working on, something about having to stay on-set over New Year’s.

“Please come, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says. “It’s late, and the roads are bad, so I didn’t want to disturb my parents.”

A quick glance at the clock reveals that it’s already eight in the evening. The airport is twenty minutes away, but Oikawa is right. The roads are _awful,_ and it’s already dark. The round trip, plus all the hassle that comes with being in an airport, could mean that he won’t get back until ten. Even as his thoughts run circles, pointing out every reason this is a bad idea, Iwaizumi is pulling on a winter coat and grabbing his keys off the kitchen counter. He’s never been able to say no to Oikawa, not when it really matters, and Oikawa has been exploiting that part of him for years.

The roads are icy with sleet as Iwaizumi coaxes the car out of his apartment’s parking garage and onto the frozen asphalt. It last snowed days ago, but temperatures have been colder than normal, and any moisture in the air seems to be freezing solid.

The car is rickety, jostling Iwaizumi as he drives. It’s a piece of shit Honda that had already been old when he bought it a few years ago. Its heater is broken, and Iwaizumi’s fingers are beginning to freeze. He should have brought gloves. He should have stayed home. He should never have fallen in love.

Iwaizumi chuckles. Right, like being in love with Oikawa is a monthly subscription he can opt out of. If only it were that easy.

They met at a high school girls’ track meet the summer before their kindergarten year. Iwaizumi’s dad was the coach, and Oikawa’s older sister was competing. Being five years old, neither of them had much interest in the race, and being in a small, everyone-knows-everyone community, their parents let them wander off on their own without complaint.

Iwaizumi had spotted a butterfly in the grass, one of those petite white ones with black speckles, and stalked up to it, squatting to inspect the pattern of the dust on its wings. Butterflies weren’t his favorite insect—he much preferred beetles and crickets—but he’d always thought they were good luck.

The butterfly stirred, wings beating as it lifted itself into the air, and Iwaizumi chased after it without thinking. It flew behind a row of bleachers, and Iwaizumi followed just a handful of seconds behind.

He paused in his tracks when he saw that the space was already occupied. Another boy, his age, crouched in the dirt there. He stared at the butterfly with wide eyes. His chubby fingers were poised to reach out and touch it, mere centimeters from the butterfly’s wings.

The boy looked surprised to see Iwaizumi invade his space. He was shorter than Iwaizumi, and his cheeks were rounder, and there was a small cheetah print band-aid on his left knee. Iwaizumi, unsure of what to say, shuffled his feet, kicking up a cloud of dust. The butterfly flew away.

The boy frowned. “You scared it.”

Iwaizumi scoffed. “Whatever. You aren’t s’posed to touch them anyways.”

“I wasn’t gonna touch it,” he lied.

“Were too,” Iwaizumi said. “My mom said if you touch a butterfly’s wing then it can’t fly anymore.”

“Oh,” the boy said. He frowned at his hands. “I didn’t know.”

Iwaizumi huffed and sat down in the dirt beside him. Looking around for something to occupy his hands with, he spotted a fallen stick and picked it up. He busied himself drawing a face in the dirt, the other boy watching curiously over his shoulder.

The finished drawing was a messy scribble of a child’s face, with exaggerated sharp teeth and grabby hands. Iwaizumi pointed to it. “That’s you,” he said.

The boy squawked, grabbing the stick out of his hands. “Oh yeah?” he cried. “Well I’ll show _you_ what _you_ are!”

That day, they talked about anything they could think of, but it didn’t occur to them to introduce themselves by name. And when Iwaizumi’s mom came by to fetch him, he left without complaint.

The next time they met was the first day of kindergarten. Iwaizumi had gone to school early and chosen a desk, and when the boy he would later know as Oikawa Tooru arrived a few minutes later, he hesitated in the doorway until Iwaizumi relented and waved him over with a huff. They didn’t leave each others’ sides for the next twelve years.

Iwaizumi lets out a relieved breath when he finally pulls into an open spot in the airport’s parking garage. The sun has been down for hours now, and his headlights are too weak to properly illuminate the dark road. He just wants to find Oikawa and go home.

His heart doesn’t twist when he thinks about Oikawa, and his eyes don’t sting. When it comes to the other man, when it comes to what they could have had, Iwaizumi has figured out that it’s pointless to be heartbroken. If anything, he experiences a moment of quiet, bittersweet longing as he climbs out of the car and lays eyes on the airport’s sliding doors.

How many times has Oikawa come running through those very doors, straight into Iwaizumi’s arms? How many times has Iwaizumi watched him walk back through them, helpless to do anything but let him go?

At the end of the day, he knows they belong to each other. But he wishes the world wouldn’t get in the way so often.

After clearing space in the trunk for Oikawa’s luggage—there’s bound to be a lot—Iwaizumi makes his way to the arrival gates. He stands toward the back of the waiting crowd, wanting to see Oikawa before Oikawa sees him. Winter break was weeks ago, and the airport is far too quiet and empty. People congregate in small groups and converse in low tones, and no one but Iwaizumi is waiting for Oikawa to arrive.

The trip must have been quite the spontaneous decision, Iwaizumi thinks, if there’s not even a single reporter here.

Iwaizumi recognizes him as soon as he comes into view, despite the scarf concealing half his face and the hoodie hiding most of the other half. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and waits, watches as Oikawa scans the crowd. His eyes are covered by a pair of oversized aviators, but Iwaizumi knows the exact moment they land on him.

Oikawa breaks into a small, soft smile and weaves through the crowd toward Iwaizumi. As soon as he’s close enough, he drops his bags and flings his arms around Iwaizumi’s neck, burying his face in his shoulder. “Iwa-chan,” he mumbles. “You came.”

“You knew I would,” Iwaizumi says. A long time ago, he decided there was no point in pretending he wouldn’t go to the ends of the earth for Oikawa.

“I knew,” Oikawa agrees. “Thank you, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi swallows down the tired lump in his throat. “Of course.”

Oikawa doesn’t complain when Iwaizumi takes his bags for him. He slings the backpack over his shoulder and pulls one suitcase in each hand, and Oikawa’s fingers wrap around his wrist to keep him close. His fingers are cold, so Iwaizumi stops at a Starbucks kiosk and buys him a hot chocolate before they return to the car.

“What happened this time?” Iwaizumi asks as he pulls out of the parking garage.

Oikawa takes off the glasses, and Iwaizumi notes that his eyes are red. “Catharine broke up with me,” he says.

Iwaizumi’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s not your fault,” Oikawa says, which isn’t quite true.

“Hm.”

Oikawa frowns at his cup, tracing the festive patterns with his finger. Iwaizumi waits for him to speak.

“She wanted me to propose,” he murmurs. “We talked about it, and it’s only been six months, and I thought it was going too fast… we ended up breaking it off.”

“I’m sorry,” Iwaizumi says again. This isn’t the first time Oikawa has been dumped, but it does seem to be affecting him more than usual. When he’s gone through breakups in the past, Iwaizumi has teased him for it or taken him to dinner to distract him, but it doesn’t seem like those things will work now. All he can think to do is listen.

“I don’t know if you saw—she tweeted about it,” Oikawa continues. “She didn’t _say_ I cheated but… it was sort of implied.” He lets out a hollow laugh. “And you know how it is. Everyone jumped on it, and it became a whole thing.”

Iwaizumi hadn’t known any of this. He keeps up with Oikawa’s career, but he mostly tracks the accomplishments. His first major motion picture, his first Oscar, his first clothing line. Oikawa isn’t perfect, but he tries, and Iwaizumi hates that Hollywood seems so hell-bent on tearing him open. “That’s horrible,” is all he can say.

Oikawa sniffs. “It wasn’t her fault, either. She reached out and apologized and tried to clear things up, but at that point it was out of her control, too. I’m not mad at anyone in particular, I just—I fucking hate it sometimes, you know?”

_Then come back,_ Iwaizumi thinks.

He takes Oikawa’s hand and laces their fingers together. Oikawa’s are still cold, and he does his best to warm them up. “How long are you staying?” Iwaizumi asks.

“Our filming schedule for the weekend got pushed to Sunday, so…” Oikawa hesitates. “If you’ll let me stay that long.”

“Sure,” Iwaizumi interrupts. “As long as you don’t spend ages hogging the bathroom in the morning. I have to get ready for work.”

Oikawa grins. “It’s not my fault you’re a barbarian who doesn’t know how to groom yourself properly. No wonder your students are scared of you.”

Iwaizumi scowls. “You’re sleeping on the couch.”

“Iwa-chan, so cruel! After I flew all this way to see you.”

Laughing, Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. Leave it to Oikawa to act like he’s doing Iwaizumi a favor when he’s the one who made Iwaizumi drive for hours to pick him up.

They have until Sunday. Or, rather, they have until Saturday night. That’s only two days, but it’s two more days with Oikawa than Iwaizumi thought he was going to get this year.

“Can you turn on the radio?” Oikawa asks.

Iwaizumi does. He doesn’t recognize whatever pop song is playing, but Oikawa does. He starts humming along, and Iwaizumi lets the gentle lull of his voice wash over him as he drives.

“Are you really going to make me sleep on the couch?” Oikawa asks when they get back to the apartment.

Iwaizumi sighs. “I really, really should.”

Oikawa lights up. “But you’re not going to,” he sings. “Iwa-chan, you’re such a softie.”

“Shut up, idiot. Don’t steal all the blankets this time.” He sets Oikawa’s luggage down on the floor by the foot of the bed. “Jesus, how do you even pack this much for a three-day trip? There’s no one here for you to impress.”

Iwaizumi carefully doesn’t imagine Oikawa, stumbling around his Beverly Hills penthouse in a frenzy, scared and tired and alone, grabbing whatever he can reach off the shelves and throwing it into his bags. He doesn’t imagine Oikawa gritting his teeth as he tries to zip up the suitcases, close to bursting, biting back angry tears as he works. He doesn’t imagine Oikawa slumping next to them when he’s done, the fight bleeding out of his body as he picks up his phone and dials Iwaizumi’s number.

Knowing the self-destructive idiot, that’s probably what happened. But Iwaizumi isn’t cruel enough to bring it up right now.

“I have to look good for Iwa-chan, obviously,” Oikawa says, interrupting Iwaizumi’s train of thought. It’s been five minutes, and he’s already taken a face mask out of his overnight bag and begun to apply it. “Remember when I forgot to bring a brush on that trip senior year and you made fun of me the entire time?”

Iwaizumi remembers. “You do have a godawful bedhead,” he concurs.

“Shut up.” Oikawa flings the empty face mask package at him, and they both watch as it flutters uselessly to the ground.

“Shut up,” Oikawa says again. He grabs a bag of cosmetics and escapes to the bathroom, away from Iwaizumi’s laughter.

When he’s gone, Iwaizumi catches himself smiling fondly at the closed bathroom door. It lasts for all of three seconds before he gets a hold of himself and shakes his head. This is ridiculous. _Oikawa_ is ridiculous. But at least he looks happier now than he did back at the airport.

Iwaizumi changes into his pajamas and sinks onto the bed with a groan, waiting for Oikawa to finish whatever skincare routine it is that he’s obsessed with these days. He’s not going to get any grading done tonight, and most likely not for the rest of the weekend, either, which is a shame.

Oikawa occupies the bathroom for forty-five minutes, during which time Iwaizumi almost falls asleep. When it’s finally his turn to use it, he finds that Oikawa has taken over most of his shelf space with a dozen tubes of product, and he can’t help but smile. The bathroom—the whole apartment, really—had been too empty before Oikawa came and filled it.

It’s all so familiar, and it’s all so different. Oikawa has wrapped himself in all three of Iwaizumi’s blankets the way he did when they used to have sleepovers every weekend, but now he frowns in his sleep like he never did back then. Iwaizumi climbs into bed beside him and smooths a thumb over the furrow in his brow, watching Oikawa relax under his touch. He mumbles something unintelligible and tucks himself closer to Iwaizumi.

“Sleep well, Tooru,” Iwaizumi tells him.

“Mmhmm,” Oikawa says.

All through elementary school, Oikawa jumped between interests. While Iwaizumi decided that he would pursue teaching and stay in Sendai like his parents, Oikawa bounced from idea to increasingly outlandish idea. He spent a year wanting to be prime minister, and when he found out they didn’t just give the job to whoever looked best on TV, he settled for firefighter. Then professional athlete, then racecar driver, then astronaut. Iwaizumi stuck by him through all his phases, and as much as he teased his friend, he was privately confident that Oikawa could do it all.

It wasn’t until fifth grade when Oikawa was chosen to star in their class play that he fell in love with acting. He begged his parents for acting and singing classes, and they humored him. Iwaizumi humored him as well, expecting the new obsession to last a few months at most.

But it only stayed and grew, and it wormed its way into their lives. Iwaizumi learned to become accustomed to Oikawa rambling, with stars in his eyes, about the last movie he watched or the latest actor he wanted to meet.

In middle school, when Oikawa grew into his gangly limbs and crooked smile, Iwaizumi looked at him and felt his heart flutter, and he was afraid. It was the first time he realized that Oikawa would leave him someday, that he would move on for something bigger. He stood by and watched as Oikawa took Sayaka Kaori’s confession letter out of her trembling hands and kissed her in the courtyard. He smiled and nodded when Oikawa talked about auditioning for commercials and community theater plays. He learned to fall in love from a distance.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa coos, dragging Iwaizumi out of the depths of sleep.

A finger pokes his face. Iwaizumi grimaces, batting it away and pulling the blankets over his head.

“Iwa-chan!”

Oikawa, not to be ignored, shakes his shoulder. “Iwa-chan, get up, I’m bored.”

“Ngh,” Iwaizumi grunts.

“Iwa-chan, it’s eight thirty,” Oikawa says.

Iwaizumi shoots upright. “What? How the fuck—” The alarm clock on his dresser reassures him that it’s not yet seven, and he groans. “Fuck you, Shittykawa. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

Oikawa giggles. “I was bored. Besides, it’s bad manners to wake up after your guest.”

“You’re not my guest,” Iwaizumi grumbles, climbing out of bed. He’s not going to get any more sleep today. “You’re a nuisance I haven’t figured out how to get rid of yet.”

He stalks to the bathroom, ignoring the outraged shout that follows him. Oikawa has an unnatural internal clock that has him bright-eyed and awake at six every morning, no matter how late he slept the night before. Iwaizumi has tried every trick he can think of to get him to sleep in, has tried to tempt him to stay in bed with lazy good morning kisses and cuddles, but Oikawa always gets restless, eager to start the day as soon as he can.

_Well, fuck off, Oikawa,_ Iwaizumi thinks as he brushes his teeth. He scowls at his reflection. _Not all of us are freaks of nature._

Oikawa doesn’t know how to cook anything except instant rice and tamagoyaki, but at least he’s damn good at making tamagoyaki. He has breakfast ready when Iwaizumi stumbles into the kitchen, still bleary-eyed.

“Don’t you know that it’s rude to make your guest cook for you?” he teases, but piles a second helping into Iwaizumi’s bowl anyway.

“You still owe me from all those times I had to share my lunch with you because you forgot yours,” Iwaizumi says. It amounts to between two and three hundred times since kindergarten.

Oikawa sticks his tongue out at him, and Iwaizumi snorts. “Are you ten?”

“Not me. I’m too tall to be mistaken for a ten-year-old,” Oikawa says. “Unlike tiny little Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi jumps up from the table and grabs at him, but Oikawa laughs and darts out of reach. “I bet you’re so short that the other teachers would confuse you for a high school student if it weren’t for your old man face,” he says.

“You’re the _worst,”_ Iwaizumi says, half offended and half impressed that Oikawa managed to combine two completely different insults in the same sentence. He chases after Oikawa, who dashes away with a shriek. It’s home advantage for Iwaizumi, though, and Oikawa ends up cornered by a bookshelf in the living room.

Out of breath from laughter, he tries to escape, but Iwaizumi pins his wrists by his head. “You’re _horrible,”_ Iwaizumi gasps between bouts of laughter. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“You love it,” Oikawa says.

It’s only when the laughter has died that they realize how close their faces are.

Oikawa tilts his head back, fluffy bangs falling over his eyes in the alluring way he knows Iwaizumi loves. His eyes never leave Iwaizumi’s own. “Iwa-chan,” he breathes.

“Shittykawa.”

“Very funny. Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi says, and then he brings their lips together.

Oikawa kisses the same now as he did this time last year, and the year before that, and the year before that all the way back to the very first time. His wrists are delicate; Iwaizumi’s fingers are pressed to his pulse point, and he can feel the rapidfire drumbeat of Oikawa’s heart. Their lips fit together, gentle and perfect, and the ache in Iwaizumi’s bones is replaced with a fragile warmth.

“I missed you,” Oikawa says when it’s over.

“I missed you, too.”

“Can we…” Oikawa licks his lips. “Just for the weekend?”

Iwaizumi closes his eyes, exhales. He wonders how it’s possible that every time Oikawa returns, it’s like he never left at all. They laugh and they kiss and act like nothing could ever separate them up to the moment of his departure. Then he slips through Iwaizumi’s fingers like gossamer thread, and the year of emptiness in between visits grows longer every time.

Still. “Just for the weekend,” Iwaizumi agrees.

“I love you,” Oikawa says.

Iwaizumi kisses him again.

Even as a first year, Oikawa and the drama club stole the show at their school’s cultural festival. After the curtains closed, Oikawa was swarmed with girls. Girls offering him homemade chocolate and cookies and more, clamoring for a moment of his time. There were even some upperclassmen in the crowd, but Oikawa turned them all down. “It’s our first year,” he’d said when Iwaizumi asked why. “I can worry about getting a date later. Right now I want to spend time with Iwa-chan.”

So he stuck by Iwaizumi’s side all day, even when the dance club set up a makeshift dance floor in the gym for students to let loose.

“Don’t you want to go dance?” Iwaizumi asked, because he knew how much Oikawa liked to be the center of attention.

Oikawa looked at him strangely. “Are you going to dance?” he asked.

“Definitely not,” Iwaizumi said.

“Then no,” Oikawa said, and that was that.

Oikawa’s sister picked them up because they couldn’t yet drive, and Oikawa was silent on the trip to Iwaizumi’s house.

The moment they pulled up into the driveway, right as Iwaizumi was about to get out of the car, Oikawa asked: “Do you want to sleep over?”

His sister, Megumi, protested. “Are you kidding, Tooru? You made me drive here for no reason?”

“We live, like, two blocks away,” Oikawa retorted. “So, Iwa-chan, do you?”

Iwaizumi was surprised. He’d figured that Oikawa had an awful time standing next to him all day and wanted to be rid of him as soon as possible. But Oikawa looked… hopeful? And the moonlight made his eyes shine, and Iwaizumi found himself saying yes.

Nothing has changed. Iwaizumi always says yes.

They trade kisses until Iwaizumi has to leave the house or risk being late for work. Oikawa texts his parents and Megumi to let them know that he’s in town, and Iwaizumi decides to drop him off at their house before he heads to the school.

“Want me to come pick you up after I’m off work?” Iwaizumi asks. “Or are you going to stay with your parents?”

Oikawa pouts. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to get rid of me already. I’m hurt.”

“It was just a question, Shittykawa.”

Chuckling, Oikawa waves off his suggestion. “All my things are at your place anyway. It’ll just be a pain to pack everything up again.”

Iwaizumi shoos him out of the car, grumbling about pests who stay in his house and eat all his food, but he’s smiling when he drives away.

His coworkers pick up on his good mood. In the break room before first period, Hanamaki sidles up to him by the coffee machine, eyeing him with suspicion. “What’s up with you today?”

Iwaizumi realizes belatedly that he’d been whistling to himself while pouring his coffee, and he stops. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“You don’t look like someone who stayed up grading ninety vocabulary tests last night,” Hanamaki says. “Which is weird, because I’m pretty sure you’ve been complaining about them all week.”

“Maybe I’m just happy because I finally finished,” Iwaizumi says. He takes his coffee and sits around one of the folding tables.

Hanamaki joins him, still eyeing him with suspicion. A minute later, so does Matsukawa, who Iwaizumi hadn’t heard come in. “What are we picking on ‘Zumi for today?” he asks.

“He’s too happy,” Hanamaki says. “Issei, isn’t he too happy?”

“I can be happy!” Iwaizumi protests.

“No, you can’t,” his friends say in unison.

“I hate you both.”

Matsukawa pats him on the back. “There’s the Iwaizumi we know and love.”

“But really,” Hanamaki says. “You only smile this much when…” he gasps. “Oikawa’s coming back, isn’t he?”

Iwaizumi makes his face as blank as possible. “No.”

Hanamaki gasps louder. “Oikawa’s _already_ back?”

“How the fuck did you—”

“Are you going to lock it down this time?” Hanamaki steamrolls over him. “I have a discount coupon for the jeweler’s downtown, and I think rings might be cheaper after the holidays.”

Iwaizumi chokes on his coffee. “What the hell, Hanamaki? I’m not proposing to him.”

“I bet he’ll say yes,” Hanamaki says. “Don’t you think he’ll say yes, Issei?”

“Oh, for sure,” Matsukawa says. “Congratulations on your engagement, Iwaizumi.”

Iwaizumi’s head drops into his hands. “I’m _not_ fucking _proposing!”_ he shouts.

A few other teachers who have congregated nearby glance over at him. The vice principal gives him an odd look. Hanamaki and Matsukawa snicker.

“You guys suck,” Iwaizumi says. He gathers his papers and as much of his dignity as he can and leaves for his first period classroom.

It’s more difficult than it should be to get through his lesson plans. Were his feelings really that obvious? It had taken Hanamaki less than a minute to pick up on them.

More than once, Iwaizumi finds himself trailing off or staring at the whiteboard, dry erase marker in hand, only to realize he’s forgotten what he wanted to write. His students watch him fumble his words, some with more curiosity and concern than others.

It gets worse as the day drags on. He eats lunch outside to avoid Hanamaki and Matsukawa, he wastes his free period browsing online relationship forums like a smitten teenager, and his final class of the day is coming up before he knows it.

His last class also happens to be his worst one. The kids are always more interested in talking to each other than working, and it’s rare that some of them even pretend to pay attention. Today, they must realize that something’s wrong, since they’re acting up more than usual. As if they’ve decided that since Iwaizumi is distracted, he won’t call them out on their bullshit.

“Kageyama, Hinata, put the volleyball away,” Iwaizumi snaps. Where did they even get that thing, and why are they playing catch with it in the back of the classroom? This is English, not gym.

Sheepish, Hinata catches the ball and stuffs it into his gym bag. “Sorry, sir,” he says.

“Thank you. Now, let’s see… Kunimi, can you give us your answer for number one on the homework last night?”

Kunimi blinks at him. He’s wearing a hoodie over his uniform, and Iwaizumi is pretty sure it’s so he can sneak his earbuds into class. “I didn’t do it,” Kunimi says.

Iwaizumi sighs and closes his eyes in defeat, rubbing circles into his temples. “Please see me after class,” he says. He just needs to get through the last—he checks the clock—forty minutes. Jesus.

Shrugging, Kunimi slumps back against this chair. Iwaizumi calls on another student, Yachi, who’s always diligent about doing her work, and some semblance of order returns. After reviewing all the answers from last night’s homework, he instructs his students to work independently for the final half hour of class. It’s the perfect opportunity for him to finally get some grading done.

He throws himself into his work, cursing Oikawa for being able to distract him from it so easily.

Oikawa hadn’t been the best of students in high school. He could have been, he had the smarts for it, but he never saw the point in trying his best in class, not when he’d already given everything he had to acting. Iwaizumi couldn’t count the number of times Oikawa called him at eleven at night and begged for the answers to the next day’s homework problems. More often than not, he ended up caving.

The night before their second year of finals, Oikawa’s parents went out of town for a business trip. His sister had already moved to a small town across the prefecture to start a family with her husband. Iwaizumi mentioned that he had plans for a last-minute cram session and told Oikawa not to come around, but he did anyway.

“Hey, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said when he opened the door. “Miss me?”

Iwaizumi was about to chew him out when he noticed how tightly his hands were clasped in front of him, how unnatural the smile that sat on his lips. His anger faded, and he opened the door wider and pretended to ignore Oikawa’s relieved sigh at being allowed inside.

“What’s wrong?” Iwaizumi asked.

“Nothing,” Oikawa said.

Iwaizumi waited.

“Just…” Oikawa shrugged, not meeting Iwaizumi’s eyes. “The house is too big sometimes.”

“Ah.” Iwaizumi knew how much Oikawa hated being alone.

“Yeah.” Oikawa made himself comfortable on Iwaizumi’s couch, grabbing the bar of dark chocolate he’d set out earlier as a study break snack. “At least I’ll always have Iwa-chan,” he said, grinning and popping a square of chocolate into his mouth. “You’ll never leave me, right?”

Iwaizumi scoffed. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Even then, he knew that it wouldn’t be him who left first.

The stack of papers glares at him, accusatory. Iwaizumi grimaces. He’s only managed to get through twelve of the quizzes… what is _wrong_ with him, today

He sets his pen down with more force than necessary. According to his laptop, he has three minutes until class is dismissed, so he resolves to get at least three more graded. One for each minute.

He barely gets through half of one before he hears a series of stifled gasps, and then a blanket of silence falls over the room. Furrowing his brows, Iwaizumi glances up to ask what the problem is; he finds that twenty-four pairs of awestruck eyes are fixed on the doorway, and he has a sneaking suspicion as to why.

Sure enough, Oikawa is standing just within the perimeter of the classroom, innocent as you please. He waves and winks at the kids like the attention whore he is, and he grows impossibly brighter when he notices that Iwaizumi’s eyes are on him as well.

_“Is that_ — _”_ whispers one of the students.

_“It can’t be…”_

_“He’s the one who everyone says cheated_ — _”_

Oikawa’s smile falters, apparently having heard the last comment, but it smooths over in no time. Iwaizumi would think he imagined it if he hadn’t grown up memorizing every single one of Oikawa’s expressions.

“What are you doing here?” Iwaizumi asks.

“No need to get defensive,” Oikawa says, holding up his hands. “My mom mentioned that you finish work around this time, and I thought I’d come surprise you.” He points to the sticker on his lapel. “See? I even got permission from the main office.”

It’s stupidly endearing, how proud he looks when he says that. “You’re ridiculous. You came in here on purpose because you knew it would cause a scene.”

“Guilty as charged.” Oikawa laughs. “Can you blame me? I’m a hometown hero.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. He doesn’t miss the way his students glance between him and Oikawa, like they can’t believe what’s happening. “My kids aren’t going to get any work done for the rest of class because of you.”

“They didn’t look like they were working anyway, Iwa-chan.” One or two of the students has the grace to blush at that.

Oikawa’s probably right, but Iwaizumi isn’t about to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. “Just go wait in the car or something,” he says. “I’ll come out in a few minutes.”

Pouting, Oikawa says, “Don’t be rude. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Iwaizumi heaves a deep, frustrated sigh. “Class,” he says, waving his hand in their general direction, “this is Oikawa Tooru, alumnus of this very high school and bane of my existence. Oikawa, this is my class.”

A few nervous giggles. Oikawa sniffs, offended. “See if I ever surprise you at work again.”

“Oh no,” Iwaizumi drawls. “That would be such a loss.”

The bell rings, and for the first time all year, Iwaizumi’s students don’t immediately scatter to the winds. They stare at Oikawa, uncertain, and Iwaizumi takes pity on them. “Class dismissed. Remember your homework for Monday, and have a good weekend, everyone.”

Oikawa steps away from the entrance at last, crossing the room to prop his elbows up on the back of Iwaizumi’s chair instead. “Your students are so tiny,” he says, watching them leave the class in a neat file. “Most of them are still taller than you, though.”

Iwaizumi waits until most of the kids are gone or not looking in their direction, and then he whacks Oikawa upside the head. Oikawa yelps.

Kunimi approaches his desk, looking as bored as ever, at least on the surface. His eyes flicker once to Oikawa with mild interest before he decides it’s not worth the effort. “You wanted to see me?”

Iwaizumi sighs. “Just get your late work in by next week, please. I’ll set up a meeting with you if I have any further concerns.” He’d intended to have a longer conversation, but he’s not going to embarrass the kid with Oikawa right there.

As soon as the door closes behind Kunimi, Oikawa wraps strong arms around his neck and drops a kiss onto the top of his head. “Long day, Iwa-chan?”

“Guess so,” Iwaizumi says. He doesn’t mention that Oikawa is partly to blame for it.

Instead, he leans his head back and hooks his fingers in Oikawa’s shirt collar, pulling him down for a real kiss. Oikawa laughs into it, bright and happy, and Iwaizumi smiles back. He missed this: the smell of Oikawa’s mint shampoo and the delicate flutter of his eyelashes against Iwaizumi’s cheek because their lips met at an angle that was just slightly off.

“This seems unprofessional,” Oikawa says when Iwaizumi has kissed him enough to be willing to let him go.

“You started it,” Iwaizumi says. “I don’t know what you were thinking, showing up out of the blue like that. You know that everyone’s going to be asking me about it on Monday?”

And he’ll have no answers for them, he realizes, because he and Oikawa aren’t _anything._ This is a weekend fling.

Frowning, Iwaizumi shakes his head, chasing his thoughts away.

Oikawa seems to sense the change in mood, because his smile gets softer. “Hey, Iwa-chan, if you think too hard when you don’t have a brain, you’ll make yourself sick.”

Iwaizumi flicks his forehead. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too.” Oikawa rises to his full height, stretching his arms above his head. His joints pop with a loud crack, and Iwaizumi cringes. Then Oikawa grabs Iwaizumi’s wrist, tugging him out of his chair. “Come on, let’s go. You’re not going to stay late, are you?”

Oikawa is leaving in a day and a half. No, he’s not going to stay late. “Let me get everything packed up, and we’ll go,” he acquiesces. Oikawa grins.

After shuffling all his papers together into a messy stack and enclosing his laptop in its case, Iwaizumi slings his messenger bag over his shoulders, and he and Oikawa leave the building. There are a few people left in the halls, student and teacher alike, who watch them go. He does his best to ignore them.

“So how were your parents?” Iwaizumi asks.

Oikawa shrugs. “Good. Surprised, mostly. Okaa-san was miffed when I said I wasn’t going to stay with them.”

“She probably just wants someone to spoil again.” Iwaizumi visits the Oikawa household often, and his mom has something for him to take with him every time he leaves. A platter of cookies or extra vegetables from the garden; she claims it’s no trouble, that she had them lying around anyway, but Iwaizumi has always assumed that she likes having someone to lavish with gifts.

Oikawa laughs. “Yeah, pretty much.” He laces their hands together. “Come on, Iwa-chan. Let’s go home.”

_Home,_ Iwaizumi thinks. It sounds like such a simple thing when Oikawa says it.

In the fall semester of their second year, winter came early. A Tuesday in the middle of October saw five inches of snow blanketing the ground, the roads slicked over with ice, frost lining Iwaizumi’s window. Oikawa came over anyway, as Iwaizumi knew he would. Iwaizumi had already thrown a coat over his flannel pajamas and was in the process of tugging his snow boots on when he heard the knock at his front door.

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa greeted, eyes shining and nose red with cold. “Snow day!”

“It’s seven-thirty,” Iwaizumi told him, unimpressed. “The point of snow days is that you get to sleep in.”

Oikawa pouted. “Come _on,_ we haven’t gotten to see each other in weeks.”

That was an exaggeration, but not by much. Rehearsals for the fall play were eating up Oikawa’s schedule; he often ended up staying at school reciting lines and practicing blocking. They lasted until ten on a good day, midnight on the bad ones. There was only so far even Iwaizumi would go for his best friend, and though he stuck around for the first couple of minutes, he ended up ducking out early and walking home alone more often than not.

Iwaizumi relented. “Fine.” He grabbed two scarves off the hooks near his front door, one for himself and one for Oikawa. The idiot never dressed quite warm enough, like he didn’t believe the weather could actually affect him.

Oikawa had gone through something of a growth spurt since they entered high school, and Iwaizumi had to lean upward slightly to wind the wool scarf around his neck. Oikawa smiled down at him as he worked, and the odd domesticity of the moment tinged Iwaizumi’s ears pink with uncharacteristic shyness.

When the scarf was in place, Iwaizumi cleared his throat, letting his hands drop to his side and forcing them to stay there no matter how much his fingers itched to comb through Oikawa’s hair, to pick out the snowflakes lodged in his auburn locks.

Iwaizumi’s heart flipped in his chest with a painful _thump,_ and he realized he was in love.

Then Oikawa stepped away and the spell was broken. But no matter how hard Iwaizumi willed himself to go back, to return to five seconds ago when he saw Oikawa as nothing more than his annoying best friend, he couldn’t do it. The damage had been done.

Oikawa clasped his hands together, bouncing on his heels in excitement. He wasn’t wearing gloves, Iwaizumi noticed. What if his hands were cold? What if Iwaizumi held them to warm them up? Would he mind?

“Alright, alright, quit fussing over me, mom,” Oikawa laughed, noticing his troubled expression. “Come on.”

He grabbed Iwaizumi’s wrist and pulled him into the front yard. The air around them filled with flurries of white. The sun was impossibly bright, and its reflection on the snow was painful to look at. But Oikawa’s laugh was brighter, and Iwaizumi was the world’s biggest fool.

“What’re you thinking about?” Oikawa mumbles. Half of his face is squished into Iwaizumi’s bare chest, his arm flung around Iwaizumi’s waist.

“Nothing,” Iwaizumi says. He sighs, pressing a gentle kiss to Oikawa’s forehead before ruffling his bangs.

Oikawa groans, immediately lifting his hand to try to fix them. “Iwa-chan, look what you’ve done. Now they’re all messed up.”

Iwaizumi snorts. “It’s not like we’re going out again. No one but me is going to see you.”

“Maybe, but you wouldn’t like me as much without my hair,” Oikawa teases.

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, I would,” he says.

“Oh.” Oikawa goes quiet, his head slowly coming to rest on top of Iwaizumi’s chest again. Iwaizumi wonders if his heart is beating loud enough for Oikawa to hear.

“If I like you in spite of your horrible personality, I guess nothing’s going to get me to stop,” Iwaizumi says. “What a shame.”

Oikawa looks like he doesn’t know whether to smile or frown. He settles for whining loudly and hitting Iwaizumi in the shoulder. “I hate you,” he says. “You’re not allowed to insult me and compliment me at the same time.”

“It’s a talent.” Iwaizumi chuckles, sitting up and detaching himself from Oikawa’s arms. “Come on, get dressed. I’ll make dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” Oikawa says. “I would rather stay here with you.”

“Well, I need to eat,” Iwaizumi says. He grimaces. He’s also behind on his lesson plans, and he hasn’t called his parents in a while, and he needs to go grocery shopping soon. It always amazes him just how much of a disruption Oikawa is to his normal schedule.

He climbs out of Oikawa’s reach and pulls on a pair of joggers and a thin t-shirt. Oikawa watches him with hooded eyes.

“Get some sleep,” Iwaizumi says. Oikawa looks better now, here in the privacy of Iwaizumi’s apartment, than he did in Hollywood with a target on his back. But he could still use a little more rest. “I’ll wake you up when dinner’s ready.”

“Mmh,” Oikawa agrees. He curls up under the covers with a content sigh. “Thanks, Iwa-chan,” he murmurs. “Love you.”

Iwaizumi stills. “Yeah,” he says, watching as Oikawa’s eyes flutter closed. He waits for Oikawa’s breathing to even out, and then he makes his way to the kitchen.

Dinner is okonomiyaki with whatever ingredients he can find in the fridge. He makes one for himself and one for Oikawa, and while he waits for them to cook, a passing moment from earlier in the day comes back to him.

_“He’s the one who everyone says cheated?”_ one of his students had asked.

He remembers the student’s tone, snide and just loud enough to reach Oikawa’s ears. He remembers the way Oikawa’s smile had frozen, turned brittle for the subtlest of milliseconds before it melted into fake cheer.

Iwaizumi avoids tabloids like the plague, and he takes special care to avoid any news about Oikawa’s relationships.

How serious were Oikawa and this Catharine person, anyway? Serious enough for marriage to be a reasonable expectation. Serious enough that even an unfounded allegation of infidelity is enough to make the news.

Iwaizumi slides his spatula under one of the okonomiyaki and lifts it onto a plate. He does the same with the other, though most of his appetite has deserted him. A bitter taste lingers in his mouth.

Giving into his curiosity, Iwaizumi sneaks a glance toward the bedroom door at the end of the hallway. There's no sound, no movement, nothing to indicate that Oikawa is awake. Iwaizumi grabs his phone and looks up his name, and though he heard the basics of it from Oikawa, he’s still surprised.

_Japanese actor Tooru Oikawa leaves ex-girlfriend in tears. You won’t believe what he did!_

_The dark side of Tooru Oikawa: Inside the Catherine Howard drama_

_Close friend on Oikawa-Howard split: “This wasn’t the first time.”_

Iwaizumi clicks on the last article.

_For weeks now, Hollywood has been abuzz with news about the scandalous breakup between actress Catherine Howard, daughter of Grammy-award winning director Michael Howard, and Japanese national Tooru Oikawa. The six-month relationship was Oikawa’s longest to date, and there had been rumors about a possible engagement before Howard was spotted moving her luggage out of their shared apartment._

_In a now-deleted Twitter post, the starlet tweeted, “Note to self: find someone who bothers to spend time with you instead of running around town doing god knows what.” She has since retracted her statement and clarified, “The decision to break up was 100% mutual. I wish Tooru nothing but the best, and I apologize for what I said in a moment of anger. It was irresponsible and untrue, and I ask for your understanding in this difficult time. Please don’t accuse anyone of anything if you don’t know everything that’s going on.”_

_However, we here at Star Entertainment News have gained exclusive information from someone who_ does _know exactly what’s going on. The anonymous source claims to be a close friend of Oikawa’s, and according to them, this isn’t the first time Oikawa has ruined a relationship because of his commitment issues. “It’s such a shame,” the source reports. “He would be such a catch if only he were more loyal. But, heh, with a face like that, can you blame him?”_

_Uh oh! Readers, it looks like this incident is only a small part of a larger pattern. Will Oikawa ever stop his playboy ways and tie himself down? How many more hearts is he going to break? Weigh in with your thoughts in the comments below!_

_Editor’s note: Oikawa himself has not responded to our request for comment._

That’s where Iwaizumi has to stop reading. He stares blankly at the screen, gripping his phone so hard the screen might crack. He’s incandescent with rage; he wants to find the writer of this bullshit article and shake them until they realize their mistake.

The last, damning sentence of the article races through his mind: _Oikawa himself has not responded to our request for comment._

He doesn’t know much about the media circus, but he does know that disappearing right after a scandal, no matter how untrue, isn’t the best way to clear your name.

It frustrates him to no end. Oikawa is the most loyal person he knows, and he knows Oikawa better than anyone. That a complete stranger could make up these lies about him and peddle them around for a quick buck… Iwaizumi wants to punch something.

He doesn’t. Instead he sets his phone down and finishes garnishing with okonomiyaki sauce and mayonnaise, chives and bonito flakes. Taking special care not to break or drop them in his frustration, he picks up both plates and sets the table for dinner.

“Oikawa?” he calls. No response, so he does it again, louder. “Oikawa?”

There’s a dull _thump_ from the other room, and a low groan, and minutes later, Oikawa emerges from the hall. His face is still round with sleep, and Iwaizumi eyes him with fond amusement, anger temporarily forgotten. “Did you roll off the bed?” he asks.

Oikawa sniffs haughtily. “Of course not, Iwa-chan. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Iwaizumi laughs. “If you say so. C’mon, let’s eat before the food gets cold.”

They take their seats, mumbling a quick _itadakimasu_ over the food before digging in. Iwaizumi can’t help but look at Oikawa through a new lens. He wonders how much of the rumors Oikawa has read about himself. He doesn’t know how Oikawa stands it, but then again, he’s always been strong. Maybe too strong, the way he tries to carry the world alone, refusing to ask for help until the moment he breaks down.

Oikawa glares at him. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Iwaizumi asks.

“Like… like you pity me or something.” Oikawa slumps, poking at his plate. “You read them, didn’t you?”

Iwaizumi winces. “I’m sorry. It’s not any of my business, and I—”

“I’m not mad about that,” Oikawa interrupts. “I just wish you didn’t have to see me the way they see me.” He meets Iwaizumi’s eyes. “I know it’s unfair, but I like to keep you separate from all of it. I like… I like that I’m a better person when I’m with you. I wish I could make you believe that’s how I am all the time.”

“You’re always you,” Iwaizumi says.

Oikawa shakes his head. “No, I—it’s so easy to get wrapped up in things that don’t matter, you know? Especially when I’m back there.”

He drags his fork through the okonomiyaki, scraping up a small amount and bringing it to his mouth. He chews it listlessly, and Iwaizumi lets him gather his thoughts.

“I didn’t cheat on Catherine, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t in the wrong,” Oikawa finally says. “I never made time for her, I kept promising her that we would talk about marriage or buying a house together or—or whatever it was, and then I never did.” He laughs without humor. “She put up with a lot more shit from me than I would have.”

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi says, and then quiets. He takes Oikawa’s hand. He’s never been one to try to smooth all of Oikawa’s problems away. He knows Oikawa is flawed, and there’s no point in trying to absolve him of blame, but at the same time, there’s no point in scolding him for something he already knows he did wrong.

Oikawa clutches his hand tight. “And with you, it’s so easy,” he whispers. “There aren’t any distractions or expectations and if I could take you to L.A. with me, you know I would.”

“I do know,” Iwaizumi reassures him.

“But I feel like if I did, it would fuck everything up,” Oikawa says. “I can’t ask that of you, Hajime, I can’t—you already put up with so much of my bullshit. I don’t want to make you move to Hollywood for me and then take you for granted and watch you grow to resent me for it.” He says the last part all in a rush, his fingers grabbing onto Iwaizumi’s hand so tight it hurts.

Iwaizumi doesn’t think anything could make him resent Oikawa. But it’s irrelevant, because he’s not going to move to America. His life is here, and he’ll be here every time Oikawa sees fit to return, and that’s all.

“Come on,” Iwaizumi says. He’s full, and it doesn’t look like Oikawa has much of an appetite. He pulls Oikawa out of his chair.

“What?” Oikawa asks.

“I’m going to run you a hot bath, and you’re going to do one of your annoying facemask things, and we’re going to go to bed early.”

“I just woke up,” Oikawa says with a frown. “I don’t want to sleep all weekend, Iwa-chan. And you probably have better things to do.”

“Decision’s final,” Iwaizumi says. “You’re not getting out of this.”

“Really, Iwa-chan. We only have a weekend to spend together, and you want to sleep through it?”

“What I want,” Iwaizumi counters, “is to make sure you’re taken care of. God knows you won’t do it on your own.” He steers Oikawa to the bathroom and turns on the bathtub faucet, and they wait as it fills with water. Steam rises into the air.

“Okay,” Oikawa says. His voice is small. “Thank you, Hajime.”

“Uh huh. Wait here, let me get you a change of clothes.”

He fetches Oikawa’s pajamas. They’re high quality: navy blue satin, a matching set. And it makes Iwaizumi roll his eyes because he knows Oikawa likes to sleep naked, so he probably doesn’t even use them.

Still, he folds them with care and, upon returning to the bathroom, sets them atop the counter. Oikawa has already stripped and gotten in the tub, and he beckons to Iwaizumi with a lascivious wink when he enters.

“Are you going to join me?” Oikawa asks.

Iwaizumi ignores him. He rushes through his nightly routine, conscious all the while of Oikawa’s gaze on his back and of the strange domesticity of the moment. When he’s done, he kneels by the tub and tilts Oikawa’s head toward him until he’s able to kiss his cheek.

“G’night, Tooru,” he says. “Come to bed when you’re done.”

“Hmm.” Oikawa smirks, playfully cupping a handful of water and splashing it at Iwaizumi. “Will do, Iwa-chan.”

“Asshole.” Iwaizumi stands, inspecting the wet patch on the front of his t-shirt.

Oikawa laughs. “I love you too.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Satisfied that Oikawa is feeling better, Iwaizumi turns away, missing the confused look Oikawa directs at him as he leaves.

Luckily for Iwaizumi, their first kiss happened mere days after he realized his feelings. It was like the universe and all its stars lined up to give them one perfect moment. Or maybe it was just that Oikawa had always been a master of dramatic timing.

It was a rare Saturday when Oikawa had no weekend rehearsals to worry about. Taking advantage of that fact, his mom had enlisted him and Iwaizumi to clean the attic, which consisted of row upon row of cardboard boxes filled to the brim with everything Oikawa and his sister had ever done.

“Look, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa was rummaging through one of the larger boxes, and he pulled out a deformed clay figurine with half its body smashed in. It looked to be the unfortunate product of a grade-school art class. “It’s you.”

Iwaizumi scowled, searching through his own box for something to retaliate with. His eyes landed on an old science magazine with a tapeworm on the cover. It made him nauseous to look at, but he held it aloft. “Look,” he deadpanned. “It’s you.”

Oikawa bristled in outrage. “Take that back! I am not a worm!”

“You’re a parasitic leech who steals all my food,” Iwaizumi retorted. “Close enough.”

“That’s disgusting.” Oikawa wrinkled his nose, and even as Iwaizumi burst into laughter, he was abruptly reminded of the first time they’d met. Some things never change, he supposed.

“What is that even supposed to be?” Iwaizumi asked, navigating around a precarious stack of boxes to get a closer look at the sculpture.

Oikawa held it out. Up close, Iwaizumi could almost make out the shape of a butterfly.

“From when we first met,” Oikawa clarified, ducking his head. “I think the assignment was… to make something that represents an emotion.”

“What emotion is that supposed to represent?” Iwaizumi asked, inspecting the ugly lump of clay.

Oikawa huffed. “Annoyance, obviously,” said his mouth. But his eyes said _happiness,_ and his gentle fingers said _safety._

So rather than chide him or hit him, Iwaizumi took the figurine and nestled it back in its spot among the old newspapers lining the box. Oikawa watched him with a careful expression.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi said. His voice shook. “I—I think—”

“Yeah.” Oikawa smiled at him. “Me too, Iwa-chan.”

And then Oikawa’s hands were on his cheeks, and there was a question in his eyes, and the only answer Iwaizumi could possibly give him was yes.

Their lips brushed.

Iwaizumi wakes up Saturday morning with a pit in his stomach.

Oikawa is leaving today.

Oikawa is leaving, and it’s already almost eleven, and _how have they run out of time so fast?_

He doesn’t regret that they’ve slept in, though, because Oikawa finally looks at peace. There’s a pillow crease on his cheek and a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth, which Iwaizumi wipes away with a chuckle. But the dark bags, the crease between his brows, are gone.

_This is the last time you’ll be able to wake up next to him for a year,_ Iwaizumi’s traitorous mind informs him. _And who knows, maybe he’ll have found someone else by then._

“Shut up,” Iwaizumi tells himself.

Oikawa’s eyes crack open. “Hn?”

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t talking to you,” Iwaizumi says. “Go back to sleep.”

Predictably, Oikawa refuses to listen. Instead, he sits up, the covers sliding down his chest and pooling in his lap as he props himself up against the headboard. “What time’s it?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

Iwaizumi glances at his alarm clock. “Ten forty-eight.”

_“What?”_ Oikawa screeches. “We were asleep for fifteen hours?”

“Looks like it.” Iwaizumi hums. “Technically more, if we count your nap yesterday.”

“Oh, god.” Oikawa rubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Iwa-chan.”

“What do you have to be sorry for?” Iwaizumi extricates himself from the covers and stands, stretching his arms to the ceiling. He grabs a shirt and sweatpants from his dresser and starts changing.

“For wasting our time,” Oikawa says.

Iwaizumi sighs. He pads back to the bed for the express purpose of grabbing Oikawa by the nose and tweaking it. “Idiot. I told you, it’s fine. I’d rather you rest and take care of yourself than stress out over what I want.” Part of him does wish, selfishly, that he and Oikawa had more time together, but Oikawa isn’t to blame for that.

Oikawa scrunches his nose, but he doesn’t object to the insult. Which is Iwaizumi’s first clue that he’s got something on his mind.

“Want to go out to eat today?” Iwaizumi asks. “There’s that Korean barbeque place you like down the street.”

“Only if you’re paying,” Oikawa says.

“You make more than me.”

“But I’m your _guest._ It’s rude to make your guests pay, you know.”

“Fine, Shittykawa. Get dressed, then.”

Oikawa wraps himself up in a black turtleneck and a colorful designer scarf that’s way too flashy to wear to a casual lunch. He throws on a pair of sunglasses, too, as a precaution in case someone recognizes him. Iwaizumi thinks it’s a dumb disguise and he’d be better off dressing like a normal person for once, but Oikawa just sniffs and tells him that he’s not sophisticated enough to understand high fashion.

They walk to the restaurant, pressed together from shoulder to fingertips. Oikawa kicks at the snow banks on the side of the road. “It never snows in California,” he says with a wistful sigh.

Which is a shame, Iwaizumi thinks, because Oikawa looks rather lovely like this, flushed from the brisk winter air with snowflakes caught in his eyelashes.

They make it to the restaurant and are seated with no problems, and Oikawa orders a plate of pork belly and beef bulgogi for them to share. While Iwaizumi starts the grill, Oikawa’s head swivels around the dining space, taking in the decorations. “It still hasn’t changed at all,” he says, awed.

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi agrees. He assumes they’re thinking of the same thing: even before they started dating, Iwaizumi would take Oikawa here. To celebrate the successful opening night of another one of his performances, or to console him after a painful breakup, or for no particular reason at all. He would grill the meat while Oikawa rambled or ranted at him in the background.

Today, though, Oikawa is silent. He watches Iwaizumi lay the pork belly in neat rows on the griddle.

Silences have never been awkward between them, and this one is no different. It is, however, heavy, weighted with unsaid words.

“Want to go visit your parents later?” Iwaizumi asks.

“Oh, sure,” Oikawa says. “I’m sure Okaa-san would love to see you.”

Iwaizumi laughs. “I saw her last week. She asked me to pick up some groceries for her.”

Oikawa picks up his chopsticks, prodding at the cooking meat. Iwaizumi smacks them away with his own pair. “You know,” Oikawa says. “Sometimes I think it’s weird that you see my parents more than I do."

“Yeah, well—”

“Excuse me?” someone asks in English.

Iwaizumi frowns at the newcomer: a blonde girl, a teenager by the looks of it, bouncing on her heels. Behind her is an older man that Iwaizumi assumes is her dad. He glances behind them and spots a recently vacated table that must be theirs.

“Can we help you?” Oikawa asks, switching to seamless English as well.

“I totally don’t mean to interrupt, but you’re Tooru Oikwa, right? Can I get a picture?” she asks. Iwaizumi notes that she’s already pulling her phone out of her purse, like it’s a given that Oikawa will agree. “Oh my god, all my friends are going to be crazy jealous. No one’s been able to find out where you are, I can’t believe this.”

Oikawa’s polite smile is strained. A hapless napkin is caught in the stranglehold of his fingers.

“Sorry, but no pictures today,” Iwaizumi says. “We just want to relax.”

“No, I get that, but this will be really quick, I promise.” The girl holds her phone higher.

“No pictures,” Iwaizumi repeats.

Oikawa shrugs at Iwaizumi, helpless. “Don’t mind Iwa-chan,” he says in Japanese. “This will just take a second.”

“Do you want to take the picture?” Iwaizumi asks. He waits for Oikawa’s jaw to tighten and for him to mouth a tiny _no_ before continuing. “Then you’re not going to. These people aren’t entitled to your time."

“Hey,” the man interjects, apparently frustrated with being kept out of the loop. “Can we get this over with?”

“There’s nothing to _get over with,”_ Iwaizumi tells him. “Please leave us alone.”

“I do appreciate the support,” Oikawa says to the girl, flashing a wide, fake grin. “I would like to be left alone today, though.”

“Oh,” the girl says, shrinking back. She has the audacity to look confused at the rejection. “Sorry, I guess?”

Her father huffs, muttering something Iwaizumi can’t quite discern but which is probably offensive. Then he rests a hand on her shoulder and leads her out of the restaurant.

“Sorry about that, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says.

“Not your fault,” Iwaizumi says. The meat is cooked through, so he piles most of it on Oikawa’s plate and hands it over. “Eat.”

Oikawa’s eyes go all soft, and Iwaizumi looks away.

They eat in relative silence for a few minutes, making small talk here and there. When the pork is gone, Iwaizumi starts repeating the process with the bulgogi.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says. “Just out of curiosity… what would you do if I never went back?”

Iwaizumi freezes. Then he forces himself to relax. “You have to go back,” he says.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” Iwaizumi sets his chopsticks down with a gentle _click_ so he can give Oikawa his full attention. “Those people just now are proof of that. Everyone’s looking for you, and if you up and run away after controversy… well, it makes you seem more guilty.”

“Maybe I don’t care about what they think anymore,” Oikawa mumbles.

“You do,” Iwaizumi repeats. Oikawa’s always thrived off approval.

Oikawa glares at him. “What if I don’t?” he snaps. “It’s been almost ten years since I moved. Have you ever stopped to consider that you don’t know me as well as you used to?”

The words hit Iwaizumi like a punch to the gut, and Oikawa’s eyes widen with regret. “No wait, Iwa-chan, I didn’t mean that.”

“No, you’re right,” Iwaizumi says, because of course. He’s been so stupid all this time, thinking what he and Oikawa have is special. Hanging on to the past. “It’s fine. We’ve both changed. You’re right.”

He scoops up the untouched bulgogi and dumps them on a spare plate. There’s a hollow ringing in his ears. “I’ll get the bill,” he says.

“Wait—let me,” Oikawa says.

Iwaizumi blinks. He’s still off-balance, and besides, he always pays when they eat at this restaurant. Always.

Oikawa smiles, and it’s far too sad to do him any justice. “Think of it as a parting gift,” he says, and Iwaizumi can’t breathe.

The one year they dated was the best year of Iwaizumi’s high school experience. It meant hand holding and cheek kisses and weekly movie nights where they paid more attention to each other than the TV screen. It meant he didn’t have to hide the adoration he felt whenever he so much as looked at Oikawa.

It also made it so much harder that they eventually had to say goodbye.

Iwaizumi found Oikawa lounging on his futon the week before his plane would depart for sunny California. He looked relaxed, happy. It wasn’t the right time to have the conversation they needed to, but then, there was never a right time for these things.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi said. “Can we talk?”

Inching over to make room for Iwaizumi to sit down, Oikawa tore his eyes away from his phone. “Sure thing, Iwa-chan. What about?”

He sobered when he caught sight of Iwaizumi’s serious frown.

“You know what,” Iwaizumi said, because he was sure Oikawa had been expecting him to say it. “We need to break up.”

Oikawa’s face crumpled. He tossed his phone to the side, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. Not his hoodie, Iwaizumi realized. One of the hoodies he’d stolen from Iwaizumi’s closet.

“Don’t you think…” Oikawa took a deep breath. “Don’t you think we can try long distance? Just to see?”

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi said, gentling his voice. He sat beside his boyfriend, placing a hand on his knee. “We’ll be at completely different parts of our lives. It’s not the right time.”

Oikawa didn’t speak, and Iwaizumi went on. “Making it in Hollywood is hard enough as it is. You need to be focused on that. I’ll be here, waiting for you to make me proud.”

“...I know,” Oikawa said. He sniffed. “I will. You’re right.”

“Seriously,” Iwaizumi said. “Anytime you want to come back, I’ll be here.”

“Yeah.”

There was still a week until Oikawa would actually have to leave, but in that moment, he was as good as gone.

As predicted, Oikawa’s mom is ecstatic to see them. “Tooru!” she says, flinging the door open and pulling her son into a hug. “I was expecting you to forget all about your promise to come back to see me. Oh, and Hajime-kun, how nice.”

_“Mom,”_ Oikawa groans.

Oikawa-san ushers them into the house. “Come in, come in. Have you eaten? We just had lunch, but I can fix something up for you real quick if you’d like.”

Oikawa’s dad is sitting on the couch reading one of the scientific journals he likes. He lifts a hand to wave at them when they come in. “Welcome back, Tooru. Hajime, nice to see you again.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Uncle. Auntie.” Iwaizumi nods at them.

“We’ve eaten,” Oikawa tells his mom. “Don’t worry.”

Nonetheless, Oikawa’s mom brews tea for all of them, and they sit around the living room catching up. The air between Oikawa and Iwaizumi remains stilted, and Iwaizumi feels too awkward to look directly at Oikawa for long, but it’s easier being around him with his parents to act as a buffer.

Oikawa, too, is less upbeat than he would normally be. His mom studies the two of them with the same shrewd, calculating gaze Oikawa gets when he’s plotting something. It stands Iwaizumi’s hair on end.

“Well,” Oikawa’s mom says at a lull in the conversation, “I think we could use more hot water. Daisuke, come help me.”

Oikawa’s dad peers at her over the top of his magazine. “Help you? It’s boiling water. What do you need help with?”

_“Daisuke,”_ Oikawa’s mom says. Iwaizumi grins. She and her son are so similar; it’s a mystery how Oikawa grew up with someone so sensible and serious for a father and inherited none of his common sense.

Then the smile drops off his face when he realizes that he and Oikawa are about to be left alone together. He jumps to his feet. “I can help you with the water, Auntie.”

She waves at him to sit down. “No, no, of course not. I wouldn’t ask a guest to do chores for me.”

Iwaizumi sinks back into his seat with a small groan. These Oikawas and their emphasis on _guest_ this, _guest_ that. Really.

Once Oikawa’s dad is forcibly dragged into the kitchen by his wife, the room goes still. It’s almost as intolerable as the walk here from the restaurant was. Oikawa stares down at his joined hands, which are resting in his lap, and Iwaizumi stares at the wall.

The seconds tick by. There’s a lovely family portrait hanging above the TV. It looks recent, perhaps taken the last time Oikawa dropped into town. In it, he and Megumi sit beside each other, and Iwaizumi can imagine them jostling for pride of place in front of the camera. Oikawa beams into the lens with the same picture-perfect smile he’s had since fifteen. His real smile is a bit more crooked, with slight dimples forming at the corners.

Iwaizumi clears his throat. Oikawa’s head shoots up. “Yeah, Iwa-chan?” he asks.

“I… If I overstepped at the restaurant,” he says. “You know. Sorry. Obviously you’re not going to be the same person you were in high school.”

“No,” Oikawa says. “No, that doesn’t matter.” He’s nearly vibrating out of his seat with nervous energy, tripping over his own tongue to get the words out. “You’re always going to know me inside out anyway, aren’t you? You’re the only one who can keep up.” He and Iwaizumi are sitting on different couches, arranged in an L-shape. But as he speaks, he gravitates to the corner where they meet, and Iwaizumi joins him there.

Tentative, Oikawa drapes himself over the arm of the chair, holding a hand out to Iwaizumi, who takes it and presses it between two of his own. Both of them stare at it, then at each other. The air between them is alight with tension, like a rubber band stretched taut.

Iwaizumi chuckles. “There’s no one else who’d be willing to put up with your annoying ass for so long.”

“Rude,” Oikawa says. “We’re having a moment.”

Speaking of moments, Iwaizumi wants to stay in this one with Oikawa forever. In this familiar house, surrounded by remnants of their shared childhood, with the scent of fragrant jasmine tea diffused around them.

But the more he wishes he could stay, the more urgently he’s reminded that they have to leave. Iwaizumi leans back against the couch, taking a sip of his tea. “And… and about the other thing,” he says. “You know I’d let you stay if you really wanted to.”

“Yeah.” Oikawa picks up his own cup but doesn’t drink it. The steam wafts off the surface of the liquid and into his face, obscuring his features into something more dreamlike. “But you were right about that, too. I have to go back, make a few appearances, convince everyone that everything’s okay.” He drops Iwaizumi’s hand and wiggles his fingers in a sarcastic approximation of a jazz hand. “Showbiz, and all that.”

Iwaizumi winces in sympathy. “Good luck. And… this time, you could stay in touch.”

Oikawa blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Instead of this thing where you don’t bother to contact me for three hundred and sixty-three days of the year and then call me out of the blue asking for a ride from the airport,” Iwaizumi says, “you could always text in between.”

Oikawa bites his lip, and Iwaizumi knows what he’s going to say before he says it. So he cuts him off.

“I know you’ve built up this thing about keeping this—us—separate from your work—which is stupid, by the way.” That startles a small laugh out of Oikawa. “But if it’s not making you happy, then stop.”

“...I’ll think about it, Hajime,” he says after a short pause. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi says. “Anytime, Shittykawa.”

Oikawa smiles at him, dimples and all. “I love you,” he tries.

Iwaizumi smiles back and downs the last of his tea. This time, he notices it when Oikawa’s lips curve downward beside him.

The holiday season after he left, Oikawa returned. He returned with stars in his eyes and a million stories about what he had done in Hollywood and how much more there was to do, and he barrelled straight into Iwaizumi’s arms at the airport gate.

Iwaizumi let out a surprised grunt when their lips collided, but when he got his bearings again, he pushed Oikawa away. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“You’re not very good at this whole welcoming-me-home thing, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa had said.

“We broke up, if you haven’t noticed,” Iwaizumi pointed out.

Oikawa wilted a little at that, but he bounced back just as fast. “But I’m not dating anyone,” he said. “I didn’t move on, like you said I would. So maybe just—” he grabbed Iwaizumi’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “—Just pretend like I was always here. We can pick up where we left off.”

Iwaizumi scowled. “What?”

“You’re being dense on purpose.” Oikawa sighed. “While I’m back, at least, I want to be yours. And I want you to be mine.”

He gave Iwaizumi that look from under his eyelashes, hopeful and a tad shy. It was a bad idea. Iwaizumi knew it was a bad idea, and yet—“Sure,” he found himself saying.

They end up staying for dinner, which is much more lively now that Iwaizumi and Oikawa have sorted things out. His mom piles heaping ladlefuls of curry on both their plates despite their protests, and Iwaizumi rests a hand on Oikawa’s thigh under the table while they eat.

It’s already dark outside by the time they leave, but they take their time walking home anyway. Some of the trees are still festooned with leftover lights, which cast a gentle glow over the path as they go. Oikawa hooks his arm in Iwaizumi’s elbow. Neither of them are dressed for the weather, since it was warmer earlier in the day when they first left the house, so they huddle close for warmth.

It’s serene. No one else is out on the streets, and Oikawa points out the few constellations they can see through all the light pollution. When the door of his apartment complex comes into view, Iwaizumi’s fingers are numb, yet he hesitates to go inside.

Oikawa seems to concur, and they end up shuffling under a nearby awning. Iwaizumi rests his head on Oikawa’s shoulder, and they look out at the world together, glowing as it is with Christmas lights and stars.

The peace lasts for a handful of minutes before Iwaizumi shatters it. “You need to pack,” he whispers.

Oikawa’s lips twist into a slight grimace, but he nods, letting himself be led to Iwaizumi’s apartment without a word. There, Iwaizumi kisses him once before sending him off to the bedroom to get his things in order. He would help, but there are dirty dishes piling up that he was too distracted to do last night, and they really need some attention.

Left alone by the kitchen sink, Iwaizumi turns on the faucet and starts rinsing the dirty plates. He sings under his breath while he works, an English song from the 60s that he plays for his students to improve their listening comprehension.

He gets through half the stack of dishes before hearing footsteps.

“Hajime,” Oikawa says.

Iwaizumi turns to look at him. He’s propped against the doorframe of the kitchen. “Are you done packing already? That was quick.”

Oikawa shakes his head. “No, I…” He frowns, shaking his head. Iwaizumi notices that his fists are clenched tight at his side, and his shoulders are hunched. “I wanted to talk to you.”

This must be serious. Iwaizumi dries his hands on the dish towel. He unties the apron and sets it aside. “Alright,” he says. “What do you need?”

“Do you know how many times I’ve said ‘I love you’ this weekend?” Oikawa demands. “Five times. I counted. Six times, including the one just now.”

“...I guess so,” Iwaizumi says, thinking back.

“Do you—” Oikawa’s voice breaks. “Do you know how many times you’ve said _you_ love _me?”_

_Oh._ That’s what this is about. Iwaizumi sighs. “Oikawa, listen—”

“No, Hajime, _you_ listen. Zero times. You haven’t said it a single time, not even when I say it first.” He stalks forward, crossing from the door to the sink until he’s standing right in front of Iwaizumi, looking a little lost, a little defeated. “I know I don’t have the right to ask you this—we said it was just a weekend thing, but… can you blame me for wanting to hear it?"

Iwaizumi can’t.

“Can I show you something?” he asks.

Oikawa’s frown deepens. “Were you not listening to me at _all?”_

Iwaizumi tuts at him. “You’re so impatient. Come on.”

He leads Oikawa to his bedroom, to the small closet next to the bathroom door. He slides it open and grabs an old shoebox off the top shelf. His knees are a little weak. He’s never shown this to anyone, least of all the man waiting right beside him.

They take a seat on the side of the bed, and Iwaizumi puts the box between them. Oikawa studies it uncertainly.

Iwaizumi lifts the lid off, and the room is quiet enough for him to hear the hitch in Oikawa’s breath.

It’s a mess of loose scraps of paper. At first, they look random, but on closer inspection, they share a common subject. Some are full sheets, glossy magazine spreads that highlight Oikawa’s pearly smile and perfect hair in vivid color. Others are smaller: cuttings from newspapers that mention some of the smaller events Oikawa has attended, half-page printouts of online features.

Oikawa’s hands shake as he sifts through them. His breathing grows unsteady as he goes. “You… you kept them,” he whispers.

It started as something of a joke. When he first started getting cast in minor roles in Hollywood, Oikawa would look for any newspaper or magazine or website that mentioned him and send it to Iwaizumi. Partly to brag, but mostly out of genuine excitement over his accomplishments. Iwaizumi would tease him for being so egotistical, but he kept them all. And when Oikawa blew up and it became impossible for him to keep track of everyone who was writing about him, Iwaizumi did his best to keep up the tradition.

“I thought you threw them out,” Oikawa says.

Iwaizumi shrugs. “They were important to you.” He reaches into the bottom of the shoebox and carefully extricates an old article. It’s old, creased at the edges, and there isn’t even a picture. Oikawa’s name is printed alongside thirteen others as part of a list of extras in a crowd, nothing more. But Iwaizumi remembers how excited Oikawa had been to be on a real movie set for the first time, remembers how his ringing phone had woken him up at three in the morning because Oikawa forgot that time zones existed.

Oikawa’s eyes sharpen with recognition, and his lip wobbles.

“I love you,” Iwaizumi says gently, like the evidence of it isn’t laid out in front of them. “Of course I love you, Tooru.”

Oikawa makes a sound like he’s in pain, and then his eyes are brimming with tears as he launches himself into Iwaizumi’s lap.

Iwaizumi falls back onto the bed with an _oomph._ The sudden movement jostles the box, and some of the scraps flutter to the floor, but it stays otherwise intact. Oikawa’s shoulders shake in Iwaizumi’s hold.

_Oh shit,_ Iwaizumi thinks, even as his shirt grows damp with Oikawa’s hot tears. _Fuck, he’s actually crying._

Oikawa never cries. He’s a brat, sure. He’s whiny and dramatic and when he’s upset, his reactions range from complaining about it for hours to sulking to faking a smile and soldiering through it. But Iwaizumi can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Oikawa cry.

One: they’re seven years old, playing tag in the woods, and Iwaizumi trips over a log and sprains his ankle, and Oikawa starts bawling because he thinks his leg is broken.

Two: they’re fourteen, and Oikawa learns what heartbreak feels like for the first time as he watches the girl he likes hold hands with someone else. That night, Iwaizumi stays over at his house without being asked.

Three: they’re eighteen, and it’s the night before Oikawa’s flight leaves for Los Angeles, and Iwaizumi tells him _you’ll find someone else and forget all about me._ Oikawa says _don’t be stupid, Iwa-chan_ and kisses him, and it tastes like salt and ruin.

This is the fourth time. Iwaizumi’s chest is so tight it’s painful. He smooths a hand over Oikawa’s hair, rubs his back as he shakes with silent sobs.

“I love you,” Iwaizumi whispers. Now that he’s said it once, it’s the only thing he can say without his voice cracking.

Oikawa cries harder, hands fisting in Iwaizumi’s shirt. Iwaizumi wonders how many of their years together have led up to this moment. How many inside jokes, stolen moments, stolen weekends, only for them to break like this.

“Let me stay,” Oikawa sobs. “Let me stay here, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi’s arms tighten around him. He’s not the one forcing Oikawa to leave, and they both know that. “You can’t,” he says. “You know you can’t. You know what they’ll say if you don’t go back.”

Closing his eyes, Iwaizumi pictures it. Pictures all the useless trinkets Oikawa brought with him cluttering his apartment permanently instead of being stuffed back into his luggage and shipped to L.A. Pictures waking up with Oikawa every morning and brushing his teeth with an arm around Oikawa’s waist. Any other time, he would give the world to have it be real. What bad timing that it’s only possible now, when it’s not actually possible at all.

It’s horrible. Iwaizumi is close to tears himself, vision going blurry as Oikawa makes a mess of them both. He can _feel_ Oikawa’s heart splintering in his chest, the shattered pieces of it rattling with every shuddery breath he takes, and it’s worse because there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Oikawa is the one breaking his own heart.

He waits, rubbing circles into Oikawa’s back, until the sobbing reduces to shaking and then to minute tremors. “Sometimes,” Iwaizumi says. “Sometimes I don’t know how to say I love you without saying _all of it._ I don’t think I can tell you how much I love you without telling you how fucking much I want you to stay.”

“You’re going to make me cry again,” Oikawa murmurs against his neck.

Collecting himself, Oikawa sniffles and pulls back. He wipes his eyes, but he can’t do anything to hide their puffiness. Iwaizumi prefers it that way, likes it when Oikawa doesn’t feel like he has to hide.

He maneuvers them into a more comfortable position: Iwaizumi lying vertically on the bed with Oikawa resting on top of him. Their legs end up tangled together.

“Hajime,” Oikawa says. “I’m an idiot.”

“No you’re not,” Iwaizumi says. Then he pauses. “Well, you kind of are. But what is this about, specifically?”

Oikawa delivers a half-hearted punch to his chest. “I guess I’ve just been stuck in my head about all this,” he says. “It’s so stupid. I’m the one who made up all the rules, aren’t I? I’m the one who didn’t call you, or text you. I’m the one who started this… thing every year."

“Well, yeah,” Iwaizumi says. “But I get it, you know? I would’ve called you out, otherwise.”

“Because you’re an idiot, too.” Iwaizumi scowls, and Oikawa giggles, flattening the crease in his brow with his thumb. “There aren’t any rules, are there? It’s up to us. I can have you, and I can have Hollywood.”

Iwaizumi’s heart does a backflip. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Oikawa says, “that it’s going to take a couple of weeks, tops, to get back into the media’s good graces. After that, I’m thinking of taking a break. Flying to Miyagi again. Maybe seeing where things go. With us.”

_“Oikawa,”_ Iwaizumi breathes.

“If—if you want,” Oikawa rushes to explain. “If you’re willing to wait just a little while longer. But I’ll call you this time, I promise. Nightly, if I can.”

Iwaizumi’s waited for ten years. Another month is nothing.

He grabs onto Oikawa and flips them over, caging him in on the bed. Oikawa tilts his head to look up at him. Devotion shines in his eyes, and Iwaizumi is so, so gone.

“I’ll always wait for you, Tooru,” Iwaizumi says. “I’ll be right here.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! feel free to leave a comment or kudos or, since i finally caved and made one, come talk to me on twitter [@birdiwaoi!](https://twitter.com/birdiwaoi)
> 
> i'm planning two additional installments in this series based on other songs from the album, so please look forward to those as well <3


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